


Call It What You Like

by kayliemalinza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Strip Poker, Strip Tease, Sub!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strip poker, strip tease.... whatever. Jo's the winner, so she gets to make the rules. </p><p>Teaser: Jo slides the deck over to him, fingernails flashing from the light over the sink. Her fingers are pale and sweet-looking, but Dean felt some callouses when she passed him the whiskey a minute ago, skin rubbed tough by holsters and hilts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call It What You Like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sour_Idealist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/gifts).



He loses the first few hands, just to be polite.

"That doesn't count," says Jo, when he reaches for the necklace to pull it off. "I'd be here all night waiting for you to get rid of your pretty bracelets." She winks. 

Dean doesn't especially need her to point out that he's wearing more jewelry than she is. He doesn't need her sass, either, and yet it spouts forth.

(He's lying. Sass rhymes with ass and Dean knows what makes him happy.)

"Alright, alright," he says, and tugs the necklace back down. There's no way to look sexy while taking it off, anyway; he always ends up with the cord digging into his cheeks and the amulet stuck up his nose or something. He stands, shrugs off his jacket instead, and drapes it over the back of his chair. "Happy?" he asks. He's holding his hands up because he did a little flourish putting the jacket down and if it looks a little like he's making a sign of surrender, well, that's totally accidental. 

"Yeah," says Jo, and tilts her head to the side. Her mouth goes stretchy in her face, smug and chipper and saccharine, and Dean wrinkles his nose in return. He remembers that time Sammy watched one National Geographic show too many and lectured him on how water buffalo used nostril flares to attract a mate or something. That's totally not applicable here. Dean would never bang a buffalo.

Jo slides the deck over to him, fingernails flashing from the light over the sink. Her fingers are pale and sweet-looking, but Dean felt some callouses when she passed him the whiskey a minute ago, skin rubbed tough by holsters and hilts.

"Your deal," she says.

Half an hour later, Dean's in trouble, which is surprising because he's a freaking awesome poker player. Jo's good, but not better, yet here he is with his neck naked and his toes going cold.

"You're cheating," he says.

"Am not," Jo says. She casually adjusts the strap of her tank-top—she lost her bra a couple of hands ago—and Dean forgets whether she stayed or raised on the last card.

"Are too," says Dean.

Jo smiles, sweet as pie, and sips her whiskey. "Call," she says, and Dean can hear his mental soundtrack go _dun-dun-dun_.

Jo flashes a pair of queens, so Dean pulls his henley over his head. The amulet slaps back against his chest once it clears the neckline and his wristwatch catches on the cuff. Dean flexes his pecs while he shakes it free. Misdirection, right? Thank you, David Copperfield.

Jo rests her chin on her fist like she's posing for a school photo and hawk-eyes his belly button. "Hey, could you grab some more ice while you're up?" she asks. She holds up her empty glass and shakes it from side to side. 

"Sure," Dean grits out. 

"You're a doll," says Jo.

Dean goes to the bucket of ice by the sink and uses the mirror to watch her watch him. The sink lighting picks out his scars and burns, turns them pink and purple-brown, but maybe she's looking at his back instead of his chest, and the bedside lamp is kinder. 

Dean brings the glass back and pours her another finger of whiskey out of the kindness of his heart. "Anything else I can get you, ma'am?" he asks, aping the exaggerated drawl Jo uses when she's tending bar.

"One more hand'll do it," she says. "Unless you're scared."

Dean curls his lip and takes his time sitting down. He has a good view when he's standing: creamy cleavage and nipples throwing shadows through the cotton. 

Three minutes from ante to call; Jo crows in delight when she flings her cards down.

"Bet you wish you hadn't thrown those first couple of hands, huh?" she says. 

"Just trying to be chivalrous," Dean grouses.

"You see me wearing a corset and some bigass dress?" Jo snaps. "Pay up, bucko."

Dean sighs and stands up. He rests his thumb in a belt loop and watches Jo, waiting for his dick to calm down. He's down to his jeans and his briefs and while he's a talented son of a bitch, there's no way he can shimmy like she did and take his briefs off first. Not unless he works some black magic, which he won't, because Dean Winchester is not afraid to show his gifts to the world. Pelvically speaking, of course. 

"Wait, don't take them off," says Jo.

"What's the matter, sweetheart, never seen a guy in his underwear before?" he asks.

Jo faces at him. Tie him to a railroad track and he can't describe what the hell that face means, but it's spicy and it makes his blood rush.

"That's not it," she says. "Put everything back on."

"I—what?" says Dean.

Jo gets up and sashays—yes, freaking _sashays_ , and she lost her belt first thing so she better be careful, or else there's gonna be more than the cut of her hipbones showing—over to the foot of the bed, where she threw her duffel. "Put your clothes back on, and then take them off again. I'll play you something with a good beat." She digs out her iPod and some cheap-looking portable speakers and frowns at them, looking for the input jack.

"I'm not a stripper!" Dean says.

Jo's eyebrows perk up. "Uh, you played strip poker, and you lost, so yeah. You're a stripper." She cocks her head to the side so fast it makes her hair flip. 

"You seriously want me to do a striptease for you," says Dean.

"Yeah, I do," says Jo, like he's being dim. "You like watching women strip, right? How's this any different?"

Dean fish-mouths at her for a couple of seconds, which is apparently not that entertaining because Jo snaps her fingers. 

"Chop chop," she says, and points at his pile of clothes. "Don't bother with your shoes and socks, unless you have some really special moves," she adds. 

"I don't have _any_ moves," Dean says. "Seriously, you're gonna be disappointed."

"I thought you went to strip clubs all the time," she says. "You've probably picked up more than you realize." She clutches the iPod to her chest and says earnestly, "You need to believe in yourself, Dean." She sounds like a kindergarten teacher and it's not a good tone for her, so it kinda works out that her eyes are flashing like she's gonna fling him against a wall. Dean gets flung against walls a lot so he knows that look. 

(It's not always monsters doing the flinging, either. If Dean keeps a flask of holy water next to the condoms, well, that's just good policy.)

"Fine, if that's what you want," he says, and nearly rips his henley yanking it on. He fiddles with his button-up shirt a minute, severely divided between getting some mileage out of it (buttoned up all the way) or leaving it open so he can rush through this crazy torture. "You asked for this, so no laughing," he barks out over his shoulder.

"Scout's honor," says Jo. She's bent over the table fiddling with the player, so Dean takes a good long look. Her jeans are starting to fray where her thighs rub together and the pocket corners are scuffed white. 

"Don't forget the belt," Jo calls, when Dean pulls his jacket out from under it and the buckle thuds against the floor. "I expect you to whip it out, you know, and make that cool noise? I want a good show, Dean."

The grin drops off Jo's face when she turns to look at him. Dean doesn't know what he did to make that happen; he'd been trying for a glare, but apparently Jo considers him safe enough to come closer.

She grips his shoulder with one hand and pours some whiskey with the other. "Here, this will help," she says, and holds the tumbler up to his lips. 

"Okay," says Dean. He realizes, belatedly, that maybe he should've taken it from her hand, but Jo decides she needs to pour it right into his mouth. Through some small miracle, he doesn't choke and they don't spill a drop.

He looks at her while he swallows it down, looks at the strand of hair stuck to her mouth and the faint circles under her eyes, the bristled shadow of eyelashes and the gleam of crappy motel florescents across her forehead.

"Hey," he says, when she takes the glass away and sets it down. "If... if you had lost, would you be doing this instead of me?" 

"I don't know," Jo says thoughtfully. She tugs his jacket into place over his shoulders. "Tell you what: you pull this off now, and I'll owe you one. Deal?" She holds his stare and strokes the lapels until he nods. "Good. Shake your money maker, baby." She slaps him hard on the hip and steps back.

"I'm gonna get you for this," Dean says, and pretends he isn't focusing 99% of his attention on the sting she left behind.

"You do that," says Jo, pulling a chair out to the middle of the floor and plunking her sweet ass down in it. She reaches over to the iPod on the table and hovers her finger over the controls. One of her breasts spills out, a quarter-inch from a nip-slip. "Ready?"

"I mean it," says Dean. "Fire and brimstone."

"How about we skip the brimstone and just bring the heat," says Jo, and presses play.


End file.
